


Slow Burn

by notluvulongtime



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Lestrade Whump, Lestrade-centric, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 08:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3203111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notluvulongtime/pseuds/notluvulongtime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After finding out about the altercation at John and Sherlock's reunion, Lestrade goes to great lengths to make sure that it never happens again. A Lestrade-centric rewrite of "The Empty Hearse." Main story is rated T; epilogue is Explicit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thelittledarkcat](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thelittledarkcat).



> This piece is in a response to a prompt on tumblr by [thelittledarkcat](http://notluvulongtime.tumblr.com/post/85190825384/notluvulongtime-thelittlepalecat.com). I've been told that while this is not a fic that celebrates John Watson, I was pretty fair with regards to his treatment and characterization. Still, if he's your fave, you might not like this fic.
> 
> Many thanks to [WastingYourGum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WastingYourGum/pseuds/WastingYourGum) and [Elfbert](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert) for the brit-pick as well as [ImpishTubist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist) and [CoriMariee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CoriMariee/pseuds/CoriMariee) for the hand-holding and cheerleading.
> 
> Since thelittledarkcat sees Sherlock as asexual, I ended it at the first chapter for her. If you see them both as sexual, you can continue on to the second chapter/epilogue that consummates their relationship. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I don't own the characters, duh.

_*_

Greg finally let go so that he could take a good look at his Sunshine, but the wide grin he’d had on his face immediately began to fade, the curve of his lips flattening out and the tears abruptly spilling forth more from the corners of his eyes.

"Who did this to you?"

"It's nothing, Lestrade -"

"It's not nothing," Greg's voice rose, echoing, reverberating in the vast carpark, “Tell me _who did this to you._ ”

“I played a terrible prank on him, so it’s my fault –“

“Who. Did. This. To. You.” Greg took a breath and changed his thunderous tone after Sherlock visibly flinched upon hearing it, “I’m not going to go after the arsehole, I just want to know.”

Sherlock swallowed; his head shook a bit and his tongue came out to lick the split in his lip, “John.”

Greg had to move away, eyes shut tightly, jaw clenched. His hands were at his side, balled up in fists. Sherlock moved to one of the concrete supports, as though shielding it from a punch and saving the DCI’s thick knuckles from harm.

“He’s got a terrible temper; we both knew this after the first case.”

“It’s one thing to shoot the cabbie; it’s another thing to harm you,” Greg barreled through, overlapping over Sherlock’s open mouth in reply, “Don’t you go making excuses for ‘im. I don’t care what you did or what you said.

“For fuck’s sake, you’re _home._ I don’t even care how it happened or what you did. Sherlock, you’re _alive_. Do you have any clue how much that means to me –“

“Now your solved case ratio will go up –“

Lestrade almost went for him then but stopped, hands clenched to his sides, “Do you really believe that’s why I’m glad you’re back?”

His eyes welled up again, his brows an inverted ‘V’ on his crinkled forehead. His lower lip quivered, “How dare you say that to me –“

“Then hit me; I deserve it.” Sherlock exposed a cheek, the one that hadn’t been bruised by John and closed his eyes.

Greg’s eyes overflowed, his vision blurred, but still, he covered the gap between them and gave Sherlock’s unblemished skin a soft, yet full peck, lingering only for a few seconds, before pulling away.

“I’m going to have a talk with our Doctor Watson. I want to hurt him, but that won’t accomplish anything.” He stuffed his cold hands in his pockets, suddenly shifting from one foot to the other, unable to meet Sherlock’s gaze, “But that can wait. I have some 25 year-old scotch waiting to be used in a celebratory event. I think this calls for it.”

“But –“

“But nothing, Sherlock. I love you, lad. So very happy to see you again.”

*   *   *

“Caol Ila, Lestrade?”

Sherlock squinted at the bottle after removing it from the somber black box. “Are you sure? This is worth over £100. Why didn’t you drink it at your promotion party?”

“Wasn’t worth celebrating, Sunshine.” Greg grabbed the bottle and took it to kitchen. He reached into a cupboard and pulled out three ornate bottles of differing shapes.

“Frangelico, Glayva and La Marca Prosecco,” Sherlock sniffed, “Someone at Scotland Yard has taste.”

“Sally had to work with Interpol last year. Took her to New York. Had something called a ‘Nutty Scotsman’ at some posh hotel bar while tailing a suspect. She came back when it was done and asked the barman for the recipe. So when I got DCI, she and the lads chipped in and got me this entire set up.

“Not sure about the proportions, but, wasn’t really in the mood.” Greg’s features darkened, but just as quickly, the storm let up and his face lit, “But it doesn’t really matter anymore. Besides,” he got out the short glasses, “We have a chemist in our midst –“

“It was a hobby, Lestrade.”

“Don’t think you can make your colleague a drink, Sherlock?”

It only took a pause of three seconds before the younger man in the room shrugged off his great coat, rolled up his sleeves and began peeling off the safety seals on each bottle, “You’re wrong.”

“What’s that, Sunshine?” God, it was good to say his nickname again. Like honey on his tongue, Vaseline on the glass of Greg’s vision.

“You’re not my ‘colleague’ and I’m not your ‘Sunshine.’” Sherlock snorted as he flipped the measuring shot glass in the air and caught it without looking. “The former is incorrect and the latter is…unduly sentimental.”

“Then what am I to you and can you pick a nickname that won’t embarrass you?”

“Firstly, you are not a ‘what,’ you are…a dear…person…to me,” Sherlock cleared his throat, the last two words having been croaked out rather than spoken in his usual baritone, “and secondly, ‘Sunshine’ doesn’t embarrass as much as irritate since I seem to darken the room when I enter, rather than shed any light –“

“You may see yourself as a harbinger of bad feelings on the force – when you choose to grace them with your presence,” Greg slipped off his old grey shoes and began massaging his suddenly aching arches. “But your deductions are very ray-like, laser pointers, in fact. And besides, I don’t use it because of what you do as a job, it’s what you do for my life. And thank you for that; you’re quite dear to me as well.”

Sherlock dropped the top to the shaker and had to awkwardly fumble as he missed picking it up off the floor twice. “You may use it if you wish, the moniker. Just know that I…disapprove.”

“Duly noted,” Greg observed as Sherlock mixed the drinks vigorously before pouring them over ice and topping them off with the prosecco. “That looks delicious.”

“It should be,” Sherlock wiped the rims of the glasses and set one in front of Greg, licking his finger of some spilt scotch before sitting across from him.

They took their first sips almost simultaneously. Greg didn’t know if it was the company or the expensive nature of the ingredients. Maybe it was a little of both, but what it did do was soften the edges around the two years after Sherlock’s death. The peat, the warmth of the hazelnut, the freshness of the citrus in the prosecco – it would never blur the days off Greg spent at the pub, one jaundiced eye on the footie on the telly, the other eye on his cheap whisky. But he didn’t want to remember life without sunshine. No matter how many days he spent in a downpour, from that moment forward, it was fair weather all around.

“Quite good,” Greg licked his lips.

“ _Rather_ good,” Sherlock sighed, his long fingers wrapped around the condensation of the glass.

Greg wanted to leap up and hug him again, but…sentiment.

Sherlock was so far away, mentally. But physically, he was in the room and that’s all that mattered.

*   *   *

Greg was losing circulation in his right arm but he didn’t care.

Sherlock was snoring away, enough to wake the dead (pun fully intended), and completely stone-heavy on the right side of his chest. He had to be in court by six in the morning, but if he was knackered, it was a smallish price to pay. Oh, the yammering on drunken Sherlock had done all evening, all circling round the one thing that mattered to him most – John Watson’s good favor.

Greg winced at the thought and a sharp jab entered his heart.

John had done what he could to move on. And he’d had Mary, Lord love her. He’d met her doing locum work and together they’d managed the doldrums of the days and nights, the silly patients wanting things beyond their control, their knowledge. They’d had the same sense of humor and something about Mary had brought John back from the depths of despair. It was the only way Greg could fathom why he could be as strong in spirit to strike Sherlock so physically.

Suddenly, the man thought of, the man in his arms began to stir. Sherlock’s head began to vibrate (there was no other word Greg could pick to describe it) and he hummed something indecipherable under his breath: “No, don’t hurt him….no, it’s me you want.”

It chilled Greg to the bone to hear this and yet, he struggled with the impulse to wake him. Molly had said that Sherlock needed to face his demons from the time he’d been away. So the DCI bit his tongue until he could taste the coppery blood in his mouth.

“Dad, don’t let them do this!” Sherlock cried out, “Lestrade, help me, I’m sorry, I won’t say that anymore, don’t let them…I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

_Oh dear Lord, no._

“Sherlock, Sunshine, wake up, you’re having a nightmare.”

“Ahhh…gah. Lestrade?”

“Yes, you’re here in my flat and you’re safe,” Greg lifted Sherlock up to his eye level and hugged him chest to chest, caressing his back as soft and soothingly as possible, “You’re all right. Wherever you were, it’s not your reality. Your place is here –“

“With you?”

“With me.”

“But not John.”

Greg’s heart ached. He knew Sherlock was now wide awake and he broke apart from him, “Sunsh-Shhhherlock,” he cleared his throat, “tell me about the dream.”

*   *   *

It was clear to Greg that Sherlock was in love with John or at least, the very least, was afraid he’d lost his friendship with him.

And it made him angry.

To be so beloved by this rare genius, this man who struggled his whole life to feel ‘normal’ in a world Lestrade believed didn’t deserve him? Nothing made sense. So he decided in that moment, at breakfast, when he’d pulled out all the stops and fed Sherlock like no other guest he’d ever had – lover or friend – he was going to give John Watson a piece (or more than a piece) of his mind.

*   *   *

Mrs. Bensler didn’t need freshly chopped wood every morning but John Watson obliged her nonetheless.

And for the last week, it seemed he was reducing each log to splinters on a blue streak. He got up, before Mary did, about four in the morning, and went to the small square out back, taking each piece of wood in the shed and splitting it into twos (or fours, if the nightmares were especially hard on him), piling them up to dry in safety on the lee side of the flat’s complex.

But this time, he couldn’t seem to find his gloves. And like the days preceding, he’d forgotten his threshold of pain.

Still, he went to work like nothing was different –

_It’s me, John. I know you know he’s alive. –GL_

His eyes filled. Of course Greg would understand.

Can I come in to see you before work? –JW

There was a long pause of about ten seconds before his mobile vibrated.

_7:30. I have a court date at 9 –GL_

*   *   *

He didn’t look like the bully Greg expected to see. That moustache didn’t really help make him look menacing; perhaps that was the point.

No, in the end, John Watson couldn’t meet the DCI’s gaze and that said everything.

“What can I do for you, John?”

It was painful, the silence that stretched forth.

“How did he tell you?”

“He didn’t.” Greg breathed, “He just…showed.”

“How’d you take it?”

“I _hugged the bastard._ ”

More silence. More discomfort.

John nodded like his head was about to drop off. “Makes sense –“

“Does it?”

Greg took that moment to assess John visually. Force of habit; having Sherlock in his head for so long. John was fidgeting with his left hand. Greg’s eyes weren’t far gone enough yet for him to miss the red patches and tiny shreds of skin.

“Something wrong with your hand there, John?”

It startled him out of his stupor, “What, this?” he laughed and held up a palm, “I chop wood for my neighbor on occasion. Forgot my gloves this time. Few splinters, that’s all.”

“Going into locum work like that?” Greg moved back to behind his desk, rifling through his drawers, “That’s your good hand. I have a kit here. Can help you with that –“

“No, that’s not necessary—“

“Oh, but I insist,” Greg smiled.

The grin – complete with deep cheek crevasse – a dimple – stopped the doctor short, “All right.”

*   *   *

“I wouldn’t take you for the bloke to take up sewing, Greg.”

“It’s a necessity,” the DCI explained, his thick fingers around a sharp needle as it prodded into John’s palm at the most superficial of splinters, “Can’t afford the expensive shirts or suits so my buttons are always getting lost. Sally refused to do my mending, so Mrs. Hudson lent me a few things I could keep at the office.”

“You’re quite a family.”

“What, me and Martha?”

Greg could see the pang of both guilt and jealousy there but his expression remained hardened.

_We have a kinship you could’ve been a part of, but you chose to shut us out._

John took a deep breath and let it out, “I’m surprised he didn’t let you know he was alive before he told me, to be honest.”

Oh, that stung.

It was something Greg wondered as he held Sherlock in his arms through those nightmares and the reminder of such a thing only served to strengthen his resolve.

“Speaking of which,” Greg began working on an especially deep piece of wood—

“Ow!”

“Sorry,” Greg smiled ever so dimly.

“You were saying?”

“I was going to say that he came to me a bit bruised, cut up. Told me he’d been to see you.”

“He’s an arsehole!”

Greg’s needle went deeper that it should’ve and drew blood but John hadn’t seemed to notice.

“He made me grieve,” John breathing quickened, “and then had the nerve to show up, right as I was about to – to propose to Mary –“

“Did she say ‘yes’?” Greg quirked a brow, only interrupting his ministrations to study the florid expressions on John’s face.

“Well, yeah, but that’s beside the point.”

“No, but that _is_ the point. Sherlock showing up ruined a moment, but if you spend the rest of your life with Mary, what difference does it make?”

“Are you taking his side?”

Greg avoided looking at John and went back to picking at individual splinters instead, complete with jaw visibly clenched, not that his patient would notice, “How can I, when I don’t have the whole story?”

And so Greg let John drone on. It was the only side he was going to hear, since Sherlock had avoided giving him the details of that dreadful reunion at The Landmark. By the time John had gotten to the part where he was kerbside, calling for a cab for himself and Mary, Greg had successfully excavated all of the splinters that were superficially embedded in John’s palm.

An idea had struck him while he was busying his hands (which he’d chosen to do so he didn’t have the compulsion to strike out at John himself) and now that he’d garnered all the information, like a seasoned detective on the force could do in his sleep, he was ready to dole things out.

“These are rather deep, John,” he indicated the biggest splinters left in the man’s hand, “Considering how often you use this hand, it’s going to hurt every time you put pressure on it –“

“You can leave them in,” John sighed, taking his hand back and rolling his shirtsleeves back down, “Eventually they’ll come out.”

“Is that how you deal with everything? Something hurts, you just let it stay there, even if someone’s offering to get rid of your suffering?”

John’s mouth went wide, his head cocked, “You, of all people –“

“Yes, _me_ , John,” Greg sat back, arms crossed, rising as John pushed himself up to leave and blocking his path, “No, it’s time for me to talk. Now that I have the whole story, which you obviously do _not_.”

He pulled the two chairs closer to one another and motioned John to sit, relieved when he did without protest, his eyes to the floor.

“Have you ever lost anyone in your family before losing Sherlock? Because as far as I can remember, you still have parents and grandparents, yeah? Harry’s still good?”

“Basically, but yes, that’s correct.”

“Well, I’ve lost both parents. My sister died of cancer last year –“

“I’m sorry; I didn’t know—“

“The point is that I’ve never lost anyone and _gotten them back_.” Greg’s eyes were shiny and he cleared his throat before going on, “We got him _back_. So that’s the first thing,” he ended by putting up one finger.

“The second is that you, as a doctor, are required to ‘do no harm.’ Am I correct in assuming that?”

“Greg, is this an interrogation?”

“Answer the question, Dr. Watson.”

“That is correct, yes,” John visibly swallowed and his eyes darted about the room.

Greg tried to meet them and finally managed to command his gaze, “Did you know that not a week before he crashed your proposal, Sherlock had come back from being physically tortured by Moriarty’s remaining network in Serbia?

“That his ribs were still taped from the internal injuries he suffered?”

John’s eyes went wide, “N-No, of course not. He looked fine.”

“You and I both know that Sherlock Holmes is a great liar. Do you really think he’d come to you less than what he is? Less than a man who is ‘showing off’?”

“Are you excusing what he did to me?”

“No.” Greg’s voice was flat. “Are you excusing what you did to him? Because as a representative of law and order, the two choices made don’t even compare. You beat him for being an arsehole. Which we already know he is. And yes, he’d committed a giant lie of epic proportions –“

“I asked him why and he wouldn’t tell me –“

“Was that before or after you tried to strangle him, Doctor?”

“Don’t speak to me like that –“

“Before or _after_?”

John’s voice was markedly of a lower volume this time, barely audible, “After.”

Greg leaned back in his chair, feeling the full comfort of what he knew he could do – which was his _job._

“I knew Sherlock five years before you did –“

“And you implied that you didn’t really know him.”

Greg smiled then and looked up, his tongue caressing the inside of his left cheek, lost in memory.

“That was before he died. Since then, I’ve had a chance to be honest with myself instead of self-deprecating. At least, that’s what Ronald tells me –“

“Your therapist?”

“My _barman_.” Greg snapped before recoiling again, hunched over, palms together, “Our barman, really. Sherlock and I used to go out for a pint on holidays. My birthday. He’s the only one who always remembered.”

John let the silence between them stretch out for several seconds, afraid to say anything else.

“The thing about Sherlock,” Greg rubbed the five o’clock shadow of stubble sprouting on his face, “is when he cares about someone, it’s painful. Uncomfortable. His insults are a way to project his discomfort onto other people instead of dealing with the overload of feelings –“

“Greg, I don’t believe this.”

“Then that’s too bad,” Greg licked his lips, his brown eyes almost black with disappointment, “Because with you, John Watson, what you see is what you get. But with Sherlock Holmes? You have to _observe_. Go deeper. And it’s frankly pathetic that for someone who lived with him for more than a year, you couldn’t reach beyond your natural impulse to swing at something – to externalize _your_ pain – to realize that the man you and I both love very dearly is _alive._ ”

Greg got out of his seat, then, went to his desk drawer, opened it and pulled out a set of cuffs.

“John Watson, you are under arrest for assault. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do or say may be given in evidence—“

John only came out of shock when he felt the click of the catch, his hands behind his back, “You…You can’t be serious, Greg --”

“I am DCI Lestrade, Dr. Watson.”

Like magic, Sally appeared, but the look on her face was rather grim. “C’mon, John.”

*  *   *

“How long you expect to hold him?” DCI Dimmock was standing outside with Greg, sharing an illicit smoke.

It was the last in Liam’s pack.

“Until he comes to reason on his own,” Greg passed the fag back to him and rubbed his nicotine stained fingertips against his eyelids, “And if not, I’ll give him a few options.”

“So you’re really doing this,” a corner of Liam’s mouth quirked up, his eyes sparkling, “Treating him like anyone else –“

“In this circumstance, he is.”

“Special dispensation for his Nibs, Mr. Sherlock Holm—“

Greg snatched the cigarette from Dimmock and threw it to the concrete floor, stubbing it out with the tip of his shoe. “This isn’t about him; it’s about what’s right. If I had been there –“

“You would’ve stopped them, I know.”

Greg winced, his breathing hitched. Still, Liam couldn’t help himself.

“Y’know, Watson chewed me out about Soo Lin Yao, but –“

“Let’s not talk about that.” Greg sighed, pulling his coat around tighter, “The grudges need to go.

“We have to deal in the _now._ ”

*   *   *

He could see John through the tiny window and it angered Greg unnecessarily to see him asleep. If the DCI hadn’t slept a wink, why should he?

“Wakey-wakey!”

That produced a satisfying jolt from the man laying on the bench as he shot up almost to full attention.

Luckily for John, Greg was feeling charitable; he handed him a Styrofoam cup of coffee. It was shitty, but it would no doubt replenish energy he felt sapped of so far.

“So, what…now?” John grimaced at the bitter sludge in the cup and tried to turn it into a smile.

“S’up to you, lad.” Greg crossed his arms, “If you were me, what would you do?”

“To be honest,” John rubbed the back hairs on his neck, bending his head down low, “I would throw the book at me. At least, that’s how I feel right about now.”

Greg’s expression softened. A night in gaol was enough to break a guilty man. He knew that much, but he also knew that the doctor wasn’t a bad man. Sherlock needed to understand his part in this, too.

“I’m not going to throw the book at you because there are things you can do that won’t end up tarnishing your superior record and make you unfit for locum work.”

“You mean I need anger management counseling.”

“Sounds about right.” Greg rummaged through his jacket pockets and pulled out between index and middle finger a business card. “Give him a call.”

“A therapist?”

“My barman.”

*   *   *

As soon as he finished marching up the stairs to the floor where his flat lay, Greg knew something was wrong.

“Goddammit, Sherlock,” he muttered under his breath, using a finger to push open the door, the lock smashed.

Inside was a chaotic mess and suddenly all of Greg’s exhaustion was pushed to the background and he was on high alert, “Sunshine!” he called out. When he’d heard nothing, he’d gone to the closet, yanked the door open and pulled out a cricket bat and held it up, clenching and unclenching his thick fingers around the handle. Greg didn’t play – his nephew had left it weeks ago.

He checked all sides as he made his way down the hallway to the bedroom.

“Problem?” Sherlock was sitting on the bed, the sheets thrown to the side, blissfully tapping away on his laptop, oblivious of how fast Greg’s heart was hammering away in his chest.

“The state of my flat, Sherlock! Do you have an explanation?”

“Oh, that.”

Greg closed his eyes and finally exhaled.

“It wasn’t me, Lestrade. This is how I found it.”

Greg went into full detecting mode, “Get up, I have to dust for prints—“

“Already did that. Nothing came up. The burglar used gloves.”

“Brilliant.”

“Meretricious.”

“Oh, don’t start with that again!”

“Where were you last night anyway?”

Greg threw his entire decrepit self into the leather armchair in the corner, “Oh, what do you care.”

“Very much,” Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed, “You and Molly are the only ones who I’ll tolerate who will…speak with me.”

“Lucky you.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I was at _work_ , Sunshine.” Greg refused to divulge more than that. Not while Sherlock was on the mend.

But dammit, his deductions –

“You’ve spoken to John.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, “He’s agreed to your terms, whatever they are. If I wasn’t working on two hours sleep, I’d come up with more.”

“Lucky _me_.” Greg sighed, toeing off his shoes and removing his jacket at last, “And if you don’t mind, I’m going to doze off now, until about noon.”

“I’m not going to move –“

“Wouldn’t dream of it, lad,” Greg smiled sheepishly, removing his shirt and stripping to just his pants before climbing onto the space beside Sherlock. He yawned, “Try to tap lighter, would you?”

He didn’t have to look; Greg could feel the younger man’s smile.

“Of course, Lestrade.”

*   *   *

“We’re _clooooooosed_.”

John heard this as soon as he turned from the pub entrance, shutting out the pouring rain and chill from beyond. He then checked for a sign. There wasn’t any. Then he checked his watch.

11:00 pm exactly.

Seemed right that the booming voice was wrong.

“Pardon me, but I’m looking for Ronald Trumble,” he offered up in the fast diminishing candlelight around the room, the brightly lit chandeliers making up for most of the melted wax and burnt wick.

John stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out the business card Greg had given him. He had no way of knowing that this Black man before him was the owner, the barman he was looking for. Maybe he was out back –

“What’s that you got there?” He was big, fit, like a middleweight boxer. Tall. And the glottal stop from the ‘what’ reminded him a little of Greg’s Estuary English accent, yet was more pronounced, almost Cockney.

“I was told to come at this time,” John gave up trying to deduce anything and gave the barman the well-worn card, its corners buffed down to almost fuzzy edges.

The barman leaned over and snatched it and the furrow over his brows began to smooth out, a smile developing, “You got this from Lestrade,” he tapped it against the wooden countertop and just as quickly, it disappeared into the back pocket of his dark jeans. From the other pocket he pulled out a dishrag and began wiping the top as though John wasn’t there.

“Excuse me—“

“Yes, excuse _you_. Hey!”

John was startled as the barman suddenly stomped around him and to the door. Someone was coming in and he quickly maneuvered them back and mercilessly into the wet, slamming the door shut and locking it for good measure, “We’re closed! Come back at nine for the full English breckie, ya tourist twat! Yeah, you, too,” and ended with the two-fingered salute before shutting off all the lights.

Which left only the flicker of candles lit in the room to guide his way back to the barkeep perch.

John decided to stay stationary and, out of almost muscle memory from his time with Sherlock, observe.

The decision to do so seemed mutual. “You look like an IPA kind of bloke.”

He then snatched a thick mug from beneath the counter, turned it upside down, dousing it thoroughly with cold water before filling it with an amber liquid. He set it down in front of John in the same instance as grabbing a shot glass and filling it with another mysterious liquor before placing it almost gingerly, reverentially next to the pint. “Slam it back.”

John picked up the shot, but only sipped it; it was quite good –

“I said _knock it back_.”

John did as he was told and his throat burned for good measure, his eyes watering.

“Good lad. Now chase it with a sip of the IPA.”

And when he’d obeyed it was like he’d been anesthetized, the edges of his vision softened, the center crystal clear. His shoulders visibly slumped.

“Now that you’ve taken your medicine,” the barman took out a cigar case and pulled out one, using a guillotine to snip off one end before lighting it, puffing until it was glowing in the dim light, “What can I do you for?”

“You’re Ronald?”

The barman laughed, the cigar dangling from one cheeky corner of his smile, his arms outstretched.

“That be me.”

*   *   *

“Why are you here, John Watson?”

“I…I hit a man,” John used one finger to wipe the initials “SH” in the condensation of the mug.

Ronald didn’t miss much and turned it round. An eyebrow went up before he turned it back.

“You hit Sherlock Holmes,” he puffed on his cigar much more forcefully and blew a cloud of smoke John’s way, “No, you pummeled ‘im.”

John coughed.

“Good for you.”

“What?”

“I mean, it’s not like I haven’t done it.”

When John met him with a look of incredulity –

“I teach the boys at the Yard boxing. Then one day, Greg brings in some scraggly kid off the street – by choice, mind you, Sherly is posh –“

“ ‘ _Sherly’_?”

“Yeah, as in ‘Sherly you jest, your worship.’ He was a bit stiff when I taught ‘im. All legs and arms. Judo. But very refined like.”

“Greg hired you to train the Yarders?”

“For new recruits and a certain ‘consulting detective,’” Ronald turned and poured himself a scotch, neat, “He cares about his team; wants them to defend themselves. That includes Sherly. Good leader, Lestrade.”

John’s gaze clouded over, his mouth turned downward.

“Looks like you’ve disappointed him if he sent you here to me.” Ronald teased, “Greg’s known Sherly a long, long time. When I met them, they nearly came to blows right in front of me. ‘ere. In this place.”

“According to Greg, you’re my anger management counselor.”

“When it comes to His Highness Sherly Holmes, he needs more than one, but they’re not hirin,’” Ronald snorted, before taking a sip, “So that leaves just me, but luckily for you, I’m cheap. Just the price of the liquor you drink.”

*   *   *

“Greg says he was tortured.”

“Then Gregsy is right.”

“But I want to know why bringing down Moriarty while dead was more important than doing so while staying alive,” John’s last few words were croaked out, obviously in remembrance of that horrible day at Bart’s.

“You should’ve asked him that before throttlin’ ‘im.” Ronald finished the single and poured himself a double, motioning the bottle to John, who nodded in agreement before a single was doled out to him.

“Normally, I don’t do this kind of,” Ronald pursed his lips and blew out an exhale, “ _family_ therapy, but since I’m no doctor, I can’t claim confidentiality. So in the interest of all parties involved, I’ll have you know that Sherly did see me after he came to you.

“I told him he was a right idiot for harping on your moustache,” Ronald caressed his own upper lip hair with index and middle finger, “but I know from experience he tends to fixate on the visuals – it’s what makes ‘im a good boxer. Very focused. But in this case, not good for you. And he wasn’t going to hit you back.”

John looked deep into his glass with a sigh.

“Basically, you’ve got two blokes who care about you. There’s Gregsy over here, all angelic and shit, ‘cause that’s what he does, and then there’s Mister Devil over there, Sherly with the perfect curly hair, thinking he can get away with everythin.’ But in the end, even though His Highness never said as much, he fell from that rooftop for you, for the people he loves.”

Those black eyes bore holes in John’s head and he didn’t know if it was the amount of alcohol in his system or the man’s voice, but he was ready to believe anything –

Ronald burst forth with a belly laugh. “I’m pullin’ your leg. Can you imagine that posh git carin’ bout anyone other than himself and his stunning intellect? I mean, why would he stay away for two years, shunnin’ the limelight?

“ ‘cept for love, right? And he can’t possibly love an idiot friend like you.”

*   *   *

When John took a cab back home to Mary, his mobile buzzed with a new text message:

_Save souls now!_  
Greg or James Lestrade?  
Saint or Sinner?  
James or Greg?  
The more is Less?

He frowned and then tried to call Greg but there was no answer. It only took him seconds later to dial Sherlock’s mobile.

“Sherlock, I’m forwarding you something. I thought it Bible verse spam but I think it’s something else.

“It’s about Greg.”

*   *   *

_Jesus Christ, make it stop_

He opened his eyes and tried to move, but the splitting headache told him to stop. He was laying down on his side, curled up in a fetal position; the ringing in his ears was high pitched and he could feel the rotation of the Earth on its axis – which was making him so dizzy and nauseous that he barely had time to turn over and vomit on the

_Ground?_

His fist came around what he knew to be grass and dry leaves, but continuing to lie prone only made the pain worse and he collapsed on his back, eyes opening wide and shutting firmly as though to distract him from needle-like stabs to his head.

That’s when the smell of petrol hit his nose. Greg’s hand went up to the back of his head and came back wet and dark. His limited vision told his brain that he must be in some kind of tent? He opened his eyes wider and suppressed another urge to vomit and saw random pieces of broken furniture and wood. The ringing in his ears gave way to the cacophony of a crowd.

He wanted to yell for help but the words didn’t come. He exhaled and tried to use his voice but nothing came out. One hand came up to his neck; there was a bandage there and he tore it off.

_Vocal chords…paralysis_

And then he heard a _whoomph_ and suddenly it was both blindingly bright and hot.

_…Sherlock…_

_….Help….me…_

*   *   *

John held on tightly as the motorcycle wove dangerously close through traffic. The taunting text messages kept coming in on his phone, just as reports had come to Sally and Greg as they rushed to the Tower to rendezvous with the smug Moriarty years before. The only thing that felt the same was that behind the dread, John didn’t really know what was going on. He just knew that Sherlock was hell bent on getting somewhere. And that it had to do with Greg. The fact that Sherlock didn’t have the time to explain it to him was terrifying.

But something was now certain to John as he gripped the phone and steadied it to show the latest text to Sherlock; he was never going to second guess his friend again. There was so much to lose by keeping this grudge going and Greg was _right_ ; their friend was _alive_. He’d come back to continue being a goddamned git but to also save the people he cared about. Someday, hopefully, John would hear the entire story, but at this very moment, his job was to help preserve the world Sherlock had come home to and since he knew for _sure_ that Greg Lestrade was a part of that, it was easy to remove the deepest of splinters in his heart and enter into this partnership wholeheartedly, as he’d wished a return to, for the past two years.

_Don’t be dead._

He’d said it so many times, aloud and to himself, for Sherlock, like a mantra.

But this time, it was a prayer for Greg Lestrade.

*   *   *

_What is it? What is special about this place?_

Sherlock and John had gotten off the motorcycle in the midst of a crowd burning Guy Fawkes in effigy at Saint John the Less church.

_Where is he?_

Sherlock went back in his memory, scanning the texts in his mind for clues.

Better hurry.

Things are hotting up here.

_Hotting!_

“John!” Sherlock rushed to the bonfire and began tearing everything -- regardless of whether it was aflame or not – apart, heedless of whether or not his gloves, scarf or greatcoat caught fire.

The army doctor aspect of him kicked in and John followed suit, flinging off his leather jacket and using it to grasp what he could to dispose of the woodpile.

Sherlock spied one of Greg’s grey boots and lunged into the fire –

“ _Sherlock!”_

\- pulling him out. John smothered the flames on Greg’s coat with the jacket and began taking his vital signs.

“Someone call an ambulance!” Several people could be heard screaming.

John couldn’t see the rise and fall of Greg’s chest, but there was a thready, weak pulse. It took one grave look from John to make Sherlock spring into action and he began doing mouth to mouth. Every pinch of Lestrade’s nostrils reminded him that the nose hairs were singed; most of the DCI’s silver buzz cut had been burnt off and John was sure that there were second or third degree burns on his arms and legs.

But what Greg needed most now was the breath of life. Sherlock whispered curses each time Lestrade’s chest remained still and his vision clouded from tears spilling down the corners of his eyes, his nose runny. He wiped both angrily, ashamed that sentiment was impairing his ability to give Greg the oxygen he so desperately needed.

John tried to take on some of the burden, “Rest now; give me a turn –“

“No!” Sherlock went back to his task, fueled by adrenalin and venom.

And then, as though a century had passed -

“Sherlock, the ambulance is here,” John took his friend’s hand before yelling out to the incoming medical team, “We need oxygen, now!”

Within a minute, John had given a full report on the last five of Greg’s condition and they had loaded him onto a trolley. One of the paramedics eyed them both, “We only have room for one,” indicating the cramped size of the ambulance.

“ _I’m_ riding with him,” Sherlock grasped Lestrade’s hand, unwilling to let go as they wheeled him along.

John finally registered the pounding of his heart, his rapid breathing, and watched as Sherlock disappeared into the compartment, the doors shutting firmly behind him. As the ambulance sped away, full lights and sirens on, John felt, for the first time, relieved that Sherlock Holmes had abandoned him yet again.

*   *   *

Greg wasn’t dead, but it would be touch and go for days. If the burns on his skin were bad, then the injury to his lungs was worse. The respiratory team kept him sedated and on a ventilator as part of treatment and the best burn unit was flown in courtesy of Mycroft Holmes to do the skin graft surgery that was needed. There was no end to the abuse Sherlock heaped on the hospital staff; eventually, everyone working on DCI Lestrade was flown in courtesy of his brother. To some degree, the younger Holmes was correct; only the best, the most competent was needed in this endeavor. Mycroft had observed his brother’s fitful relationship with Greg Lestrade enough to know that he was no ordinary policeman.

On the fifth day, Sherlock had become an expert at endotracheal tube suction, to the point where the nurses were comfortable (as though they’d had a choice) to leave their patient alone for peaceful stretches of time. John tried to get Sherlock to take a break and go back to 221B, but he’d naturally refused. Soon, the changes in wardrobe (from one dressing gown to the next) were joined by Mrs. Hudson’s meat pies and cakes (often left untouched). John even brought the violin, but the case was never cracked open.

Sherlock was in a state of limbo. As long as Lestrade was unconscious, he would not leave the man’s side. Mycroft threatened to take away the packages of nicotine patches, force-feed him strawberry tarts and inject him with Valium; his brother needed rest, he assured him, for when the DCI was awake.

But there was something reflective in the shadows growing underneath his brother’s crystalline eyes that told him Sherlock’s greatest fear was that Greg wouldn’t wake up. In the first twenty-four hours, they’d had to use the crash cart on him twice, when his heart had stopped. To Sherlock, it was an abomination that he should die.

In his world, this man was supposed to live forever.

*   *   *

On day seven, John searched his wallet, his pockets, and the deepest recesses of his desk drawers before realizing the information he’d needed had been snatched from his hands the moment they’d met. So he took a cab to the pub – sure enough, at closing time once more – to convince Ronald Trumble that he was needed at St. Mary’s.

*   *   *

He arrived outside Greg’s room and was about to go in when a young nurse was being chased out. He’d literally bumped into Sherlock.

“What are you doing here?”

Ronald looked him up and down, but mostly up, before replying, “Looks like Sherly’s locks need a good scrub or two. How long’s it been since you cleaned yourself up, mate?”

“Answer my question: why are you here?”

From his bag, the barman pulled out a bottle of Caol Ila, a couple of plastic cups pinched from a hospital supply closet and a shaving kit. “Y’need to get straight, my man. If you’re going t’be in any state for Gregsy.”

The lower red rims of Sherlock’s eyes filled and he palmed the week’s old stubble growing on his cheeks and chin. In the end his shoulders slumped in defeat and he gestured Ronald into the room with as much dignity as he could muster.

*   *   *

Greg as a burn victim was made up of more white bandages than flesh. It sobered the barman instantly to see his old friend hooked up via a network of plastic tubing, machines that went off beeping at random moments, IV bags that were always in a state of drip, drip, drip. And the quiet ominous sound of a mechanical ventilator – that always set Ronald’s jaw. It didn’t matter that this was part of the treatment; even short-term artificial respiration could quickly become long-term. And then it was about how much of the person was really who you knew anymore. How much of him would you allow to not be, well, _him_?

After pouring a rather large dram of scotch for Sherlock and taking his time being at Greg’s bedside, Ronald assessed the situation. He declared that the full service bathroom in the private room needed use and that his friend had one of two choices; either go willingly into a shower or be pushed, fully clothed, into it. In the end, Sherlock succumbed. Maybe it was the Caol Ila, but more likely it had been Ronald’s towering presence, his commanding voice, the thickness of his devotion to Lestrade that only the two shared with equal fervor.

“I feel a marked feeling of déjà vu.”

“What was that?” Ronald lifted the hot wet towel off of Sherlock’s face and began brushing on the shaving cream.

“Mycroft. It was the way he cleaned me up when I came back.”

Ronald eyed him, raising a brow.

Sherlock instantly looked regretful, “I didn’t say that.”

“I heard _nothing,_ ” Ronald applied cheerfully. “Just glad you _allowed_ him such a privilege, lad.”

“More like a burden,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.

They shared a look.

“Don’t patronize me, Ronald,” he continued sharply before his voice went soft, “I know very well that it’s difficult being my…associate.”

Sherlock’s eyes flitted toward the door of the bathroom, but what he was really looking for was a motionless Greg.

“Not without its rewards, Sherly,” Ronald finished shaving both sides with the straight razor before tackling the valleys of the young detective’s chin. He made a face, tucking both lips in, flattening out his own chin and motioning Sherlock to do the same before continuing, “One thing is sure; Gregsy loves your difficult arse and we’ve known for awhile that he’s more than your ‘associate.’”

Ronald had just finished the last stroke, “So when he wakes up, you’d better tell ‘im you’re in love with ‘im.”

Sherlock moved a second too soon, and the blade nicked a spot over the corner of his mouth. He stood up, tearing the loose towel from his chest. He opened his mouth to protest but the look Ronald gave him made him close it. It was an expression that was largely reminiscent of Lestrade, the you-can’t-lie-to-me-lad half smile, complete with tucked in chin and raised brow.

The beeping from one of the monitors broke the silence and both walked swiftly back into the room.

Despite being a Jack-of-all-trades, this was one area Ronald never excelled in, “What’s going on? Everythin’ all right?”

A newly pale Sherlock stood back after reading the monitors. His eyes fell on Greg’s left arm.

It was raised up to lie beside his head, cramping the readings from the blood pressure cuff.

“He’s waking up.”

*   *   *

All the days forward felt like gifts to anyone who knew Greg Lestrade, but day nine was the red-letter one, the one where the morphine pumped into his body was at a level that allowed him an alertness he’d, before this situation, taken for granted. The only problem was that he couldn’t speak. That didn’t stop someone from handing him a tablet and showing him how to type on it using a stylus gripped clumsily in one bandaged fist. As far as he could discern, Mycroft had wanted MI5 to question him at the earliest moment about the kidnapping and attempt on his life, but Sherlock made quick work of that idea, banning everyone except John and Ronald from his bedside; John because he was a medical doctor and Ronald, because he was _family_. Mycroft took that last bit of a jab in his stride. In the end, it didn’t matter; Greg couldn’t remember anything about the day of the incident anyway.

In fact, the last memory he had was of comforting Sherlock through his nightmares.

*   *   *

_Dont want tow see Jhn_

The typing was hit or miss at this point, even with a stylus – not unlike the way Greg texted (full of hilarious typos) with his meaty fingers – but it was pretty clear to Ronald what was going on in Lestrade’s mind once he’d been told just how much of his short-term memories had been disposed of through his ordeal.

The barman leaned in, so that he didn’t have to raise his voice, “I dealt with John. You sent him to me. That’s part of the day you don’t remember. I set ‘im straight; just trust me, all right?”

For exposure therapy, they’d removed bandages around his head, enough to read an expression. Luckily, much of his facial features had been spared. The eyebrows, sadly enough, would be missing for some time, singed off along with half of the hair on his head. That hair; it was one of Ronald’s favorites of Greg’s character traits.

“You just concentrate on getting better. Don’t worry about anybody else.”

Greg went back to typing.

_Whers Sherlok?_

Ronald hung his head. When he looked up again, he was laughing. “This bloke o’ yours: piece of work. Never left your side for a _second_. Knackered beyond belief, but that’s not the problem. You and I both know he can stay up for a fortnight. But me bein’ like his mum, I worry about his digestion; he’s not eatin’! So who knows about the plumbin.’”

There’s definitely not enough bandage to hide Greg’s eyes going wide.

“Yep, I slipped him a laxative in his last dram. Turns out he’s a bit sensitive. Needs to visit the loo once an hour. It should pass –“

Greg started coughing and it looked as though Ronald was about to call for a nurse, when he finally calmed down. He pressed the button on the morphine drip for good measure; he was long overdue for another dose anyway. Then he typed, slower, much more deliberately:

_God, that’s funny_

For the first time during the visit, Ronald got very quiet. It was a shock to finally realize that the oxygen masked man wrapped up under all that sterile dressing was really his friend. His eyes warmed over and the smile he gave was one of immense affection, “Good to see you laugh again, mate.”

*   *   *

A fortnight in hospital had passed and the fitful napping, interrupted twice daily by baths to clean his wounds and dress his limbs in fresh gauze, caused Greg to often forget whether it was 6:00 am or 6:00 pm. At one point, he frantically typed that he wanted a twenty-four hour clock – one that offered up military time – and would not comply with doctor’s orders until he got what he wanted. Days and nights passed without knowing anything about the outside world, other than what was on the telly, but he found it difficult to concentrate long enough for anything to make an impression.

Regardless, the exposure therapy was working. Freshly pink skin was replacing necrotic tissue on his arms and legs. Keeping the rest of him warm and free of infection was a constant battle. Newly germphobic Sherlock made a point of making sure every visitor entering his room was meticulously clean and groomed. He’d insisted quite early on that Lestrade stay at 221B when he was well enough to transition into outpatient treatment. When the statement was received by one well-timed and typed joke from Greg about Sherlock’s hoarding habits, a hazmat crew appeared at Mrs. Hudson’s door, asking for permission to deep clean his flat.

With regards to simple communication between hospital staff and their patient, Sherlock downloaded a chat program onto Greg’s tablet so that anyone he addressed within the institution’s wifi area could see his texts on their devices. It saved a great deal of time, but Sherlock was primarily concerned with how tiring it was for Greg to type and then hold up the tablet for all to see.

Presently, Sherlock was sitting at the foot of the hospital bed, his brows knitted in what could only be a level ten frustration at whoever he was texting. Greg exhaled, suddenly feeling lonely. It wasn’t the lad himself; he’d been inarguably the most competent nurse he’d ever had, albeit at times a bit grouchy. Oftentimes, he’d text him to go home instead of sleeping on the cot in the room, but to his puzzlement, Sherlock refused. Despite all appearances to the contrary, the prat wanted to stay by his side. Greg was starting to feel like a burden on those he cared most about.

He closed out the crossword puzzle he was working on and decided to interrupt Sherlock’s phone time with a chat message:

_Think I’ll b rid of that denim on my right leg today?_

Sherlock’s phone pinged and after a few seconds, he frowned and looked up. “The debridement of that area was yesterday. You have to wait 48 hours.” And went right back to using his thumbs in rapid succession on his phone.

_Who’re u talking2?_

Sherlock put the phone down in a huff, “Ronald.”

_What’s he got2say?_

There was a long pause, “Nothing of importance.”

But it was clear from Sherlock’s expression that there was something needling him. Greg’s time with his sunshine was now more precious than it had been before and he didn’t want to pry further.

_Hear things r better w/John. Must be happy2 hav him bak._

Sherlock looked down at the screen with knit brows, “Yes?”

_B4 hopital he wasn’t speaking2 u. at least I didn’t end up here4 nothin_

Now Sherlock’s features registered anger. “Stop the nonsense, Lestrade –“

But Greg kept typing, tapping away with the stylus. _Hes most impt2 u, yeah?Sos good evrythin good_

He almost dropped the tablet in surprise when Sherlock bolted up from his seat.

“No, everything’s not ‘good,’ Lestrade,” on the way to the bathroom, Sherlock grabbed his mobile, strode in and shut the door.

What was the prat on about now? Why was he so fidgety all morning long? If he needed to be out there, on a case (perhaps the one to find out who kidnapped him and why), Greg had encouraged him to take off long ago. He knew, from vast experience, that a restless Sherlock Holmes without a case was the proverbial fish out of water. He needed to _breathe_ and the last place for him to thrive was trapped in a hospital bathroom with a helpless middle-aged DCI in the next room.

The chat application pinged, signaling an incoming text. It was from Sherlock.

**John’s not the important one.**

If Greg had eyebrows to knit –

_All right._

All he could do was stare at the blinking cursor. The fact that Sherlock could not face him for this conversation was equal parts ridiculous and troubling.

_Come out. Let’s talk face2face_

**I love you**

Greg wanted to laugh. He had a feeling Sherlock was bored enough to have a go at him, but when the standard quick, ego-bruising follow up message didn’t come through soon after, his pulse began to race.

Still, it couldn’t be true.

**I’ve always loved you. You are the most important person.**

His breathing quickened and some of the monitors began to beep. Crap! What a time for a medical professional to come in. Greg knew that he wasn’t suffering some kind of cardiac episode and risking more pain, scooted up the bed so that he could reach the buttons to quiet the damn thing. Quickly, he got back to the tablet, gripping the stylus with a shaky hand.

_Come out and tell me._

That damned interminably blinking cursor.

_Becaus I want so much to tell you, too._

**You’re not my father even though you treat me like a son.**

Oh, but there was an ache in his chest now.

_You got it wrong. I nevr wanted2 be yr father._ He took a deep, cleansing breath until his vision cleared:

_I always wanted more._

_Much more._

There was movement in the bathroom. Taps were turned on and then off. A few beats later and the door opened. Sherlock was wearing nitrile gloves. His eyes were rimmed red, but his face looked freshly scrubbed and clean. He covered the distance between them, bent down, cradling Greg’s face until their foreheads touched gently and kissed him.

Out of context, it looked chaste but Greg could feel the deep flood of emotion held back for far too long and a fluttering feeling rose up from inside. He was so tempted to deepen it. It was as though Sherlock could read him then because he backed off, moving to sit in the chair closest to him.

They sat in companionable silence like that for almost an hour, no longer needing words, just the caress of one another’s eyes on the other until Greg fell asleep in happy exhaustion.

FIN


	2. Flashover

*

There were days when Greg felt that the bonfire had been a blessing in some horror film disguise. He tried to start each day with this positive self-talk to build himself up.

In the first few months of living at 221B, Sherlock acted completely out of character; he was understanding, patient and accommodating. It didn’t take a mind reader to know that he preferred that Lestrade sleep with him, so it was a surprise when he smiled and nodded his head at the notion that Greg take John’s old room instead. They’d moved all of his things from his bedsit – following the divorce, that was all he could afford – and the placement of each object to simulate the living condition of his old life was so uncanny that there were mornings when Lestrade woke up and genuinely forgot where he was.

Hence the need for positive thinking.

Because if he didn’t start each day this way, he’d never get out of bed. These were the moments Sherlock never knew about; only his therapist (the one John recommended) knew. She was fully aware of the fact that he sometimes woke up forgetting that the conflagration ever happened and how confusing and horrifying it was to check his arms and legs and find them scarred and grotesque. How difficult it was to meet with the lads after work at their favorite pub – where they had a full roaring fire in the corner. His mind couldn’t seem to grasp the fact that his body was now very different. Some of the concern was cosmetic, but even then Mycroft assured him that all future plastic surgery was free of charge. But the physical?

Greg was vain, but only to a degree. What affected his daily life the most was the immobility caused by some of the scarring left around his joints. Physical therapy was ongoing, but the stiffness and asymmetry of his gait bothered him even though the doctors said it was minor.

So what was the blessing in all of this? This was when he stood up and walked downstairs to take a lone tour of 221B. He stopped to touch each knick-knack that Sherlock couldn’t part with in the deep clean of his flat. He stood facing the windows and let the sunshine filtering in through the gauzy curtains warm his face. He would palm the scar on his shoulder that crept up just to the edge of his neck and reminded himself that he was Sherlock Holmes’ significant other.

But not lover. Not yet.

*   *   *

And then there were times when he still wanted to strangle the bastard.

“Didn’t go to any trouble, did you?”

Sherlock was lucky Greg was so out of breath. In the end, he didn’t really have to say anything. The blue lights and sirens filling up the street outside 221B spoke for him.

“Bit…excessive, Lestrade?”

Greg’s fingers clenched and unclenched. “Never,” he wheezed, “do that to me again.” He then rush to the window and made the universal Yarder sign for ‘abort.’ Then his mobile began to ring, but before he answered it, he gave Sherlock a glare, “You really do want me to get demoted. Make things a lot easier for ya, would it?”

“Better access to cases, really –“

“You!” he pointed with his ear to the phone, “Shut it!...Yeah? No, everything’s fine. False alarm….I know…second time…not going to happen again…the expenses?...will come out of the Holmes fund.”

Sherlock glared at him back with a moue of disgust. The 'Holmes fund' meant Mycroft.

“…of course Jonesy got the credit, Sal!” Greg kicked John’s old chair, but only half-heartedly, “Yeah, you're right,” he eyed Sherlock before turning away and muttering, “Better safe than sorry. Listen, I got to go…it actually is important…meet you at O’Shea’s later to celebrate.” Lestrade ended the call before throwing it onto John’s chair and collapsing into Sherlock’s.

The latter remained at the table, steepling his fingers as he began to do what came naturally. “You never sit in John’s chair anymore.”

“What? Do we have any paracetamol?”

Sherlock opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle, throwing it to him. Greg caught it one-handed, snapped it open and popped a couple, chewing them dry for good measure.

“You still can’t forgive him –“

“That’s rubbish; of course I forgive him.”

“But you refuse to forget. And you’re angry that John thinks he’s the only one who grieved. You know, you’re the only person who’s never asked me why and how I did it.”

“Did what?”

“Come on, Lestrade. This isn’t a case. I don’t need you to echo everything I’m saying because you know what I’m talking about.”

Greg sighed and tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. “Those two years without you were bad. And not just because I didn’t have you here with me.” He turned to look at Sherlock so that his cheek lay on the leather, “I had to deal with all of Philip’s theories that you were alive.”

Sherlock’s expression was one of confusion.

“Anderson, Sherlock!”

“Oh, right.”

“By the time you came back, I counted at least two dozen theories, six of which were of the conspiracy kind. I’m sure nothing you could tell me would shock me. And since I’m sitting here with a splitting headache, staring at a supreme idiot who has no qualms about wasting police resources in order to get my undivided attention – something I’ve craved since you supposedly died – I couldn’t care less how you did it or why.”

“You’re really not even slightly interested –“

“No, you annoying prat!”

“Not even if I told you that Moriarty threatened you life and that’s why I had to stay away?”

Greg turned his head back up to the ceiling and closed his eyes. Damn him. He could never be mad for long. The resulting emotional whiplash was enough to make one go bonkers.

In the silence, Greg heard the swishing of Sherlock’s dressing gown. And then there were lips on his forehead, trailing down to his cheek. Greg opened his eyes to find his significant other hovering just in front of him, his face unreadable. Greg reached out to caress the high cheekbones with both thumbs.

“I figured you had good reason, Sunshine. Now let’s write your speech.”

*   *   *

It was the morning of John and Mary’s wedding and still, Lestrade hadn’t once mentioned the thought of moving into Sherlock’s bedroom. Mrs. Hudson wrongly believed that he was melancholy over the thought of the army doctor getting married but all Sherlock could think about was how much he wanted to be more physically intimate with Greg. So far, he’d respected his partner’s need for privacy, even though he thought it ludicrous; after all, it was Sherlock who had helped the burn nurses bathe and dress his wounds for the entire time Greg was in hospital. It wasn’t as though he’d never seen them before.

Perhaps Lestrade was afraid that Sherlock would see him as some medical curiosity? Well, that was also ridiculous. There was nothing more boring that burn victim treatment and rehabilitation, to be quite frank. So if he was worried about that, the concerns were heedless. Still, there was no ‘good’ way to approach Greg with the varied deductions Sherlock had about his fear of intimacy.

Minutes after putting on his shirt and morning suit trousers, Sherlock climbed the stairs to John’s old room and knocked on the door.

He cleared his throat. “Need help with anything?” he offered up, trying to sound cheery and helpful. And then he waited a few beats before opening the door –

“No! Wait –“ Greg instantly covered up his naked torso with his dressing gown. He was seated and from the waist down, a towel covered his extremities, but not enough to cover some of the scarring on his legs. A bottle of lanolin emollient was on the bed next to him.

“Really, Sherlock, I’m fine. Just need to, y’know,” he began to laugh, “The areas where –“

“The loss of sebaceous glands in the full thickness burns require that you moisturize regularly to avoid drying and cracking and to reduce itching –“

“That,” he pointed a finger at him, “is creepy. You sound like one of those drug adverts.”

Sherlock ignored Greg’s attempts to brush it off. “I’m your lover. Let me help.”

It was the first time he’d ever used the word and it seemed highly inaccurate, so it caught Greg off guard long enough for Sherlock to sit next to him, motioning for him to lie down on his stomach before pumping a few squirts of lanolin into his palms. He rubbed his hands to warm the lotion and began with Lestrade’s feet, working his way up.

During the early months of rehab, Greg had valiantly tried to reduce the possibility of scar hardening and keloid formation by encasing his limbs in pressure sleeves and stockings. There were still raw-looking pink patches throughout, but none of them ever approached the worst of Sherlock’s imaginings. Still, it was clear from the tension in Greg’s shoulders and buttocks that he believed otherwise, so Sherlock decided to do something he never thought in his whole life he would be doing. He stopped studying and observing and began to kiss his way up Lestrade’s calf to the very edges of his neck –

“What -?”

“Shh,” Sherlock’s baritone reverberated against soft, fragile skin.

Despite a rising anxiety, Greg felt an erection growing, his cock hardening against the bed sheets. He turned over on his back, covering it with the towel, “Sherlock, I can’t –“

“I’m just –“

“I know what you’re doing –“

“No. I don’t think you do. I’m just trying to get you to relax.” Then his eyes went wide when he read what was behind Greg’s own brown orbs, “ _Oh._ That.” His gaze dipped down.

“Yes, _that_ , Sherlock.”

“So you do want to –“

“Yes, I do, you git. Just not before John’s wedding, all right, you mad bastard?”

The words were almost musical; he practically leapt off the bed, satisfied that he’d done his duty by his loved one for that morning, “See you downstairs!”

Greg did a double take as he tried to get himself together.

_Sherlock Holmes prances._

*   *   *

Molly tried to get him on the floor from the sidelines but Greg wouldn’t budge, like his feet were encased in hardening cement.

“Oh come on! You used to love to dance –“

_Yes, but that was before, Mols._

“Why didn’t you go on the stag ‘do with John and Sherlock?” Tom tried to make conversation in between attempts to find a groove.

Greg sighed and faked a grin, “I was asked. Couldn’t really keep up with them; can’t get my drinkies on with all the medications I was taking.”

The looks on both of their faces were of a revelatory _oh_. But even Lestrade’s discomfort with his newfound disabilities wasn’t even the most annoying to him that evening. As he searched the room for Sherlock, he was reminded of all the pairing up. He wasn’t at the wedding as Sherlock’s date; Greg didn’t want to go public until he was sure of their connection. He even tried to fool himself that the lack of consummation was the defining moment; Sherlock would easily call bullshit on that one. No, it was Greg’s supreme lack of courage, the self-doubt, the feeling of being less than what he was before the bonfire that made it so difficult to embrace the love he was getting from all sides.

And then he caught Sherlock staring at him from across the room. It was with a gaze that was new – to both of them. Sherlock wasn’t trying to deduce. His eyes were soft. The lines of his mouth were flat and then, a little of both corners went up, just slightly. His lips looked as though they been recently bitten and licked.

“Excuse me,” Greg nodded to Molly and Tom, faking confidence and taking the room in long strides, until ending up in front of Sherlock.

He cleared his throat, “Good on you for saving Sholto tonight. Guess it’s not the best locked room murder case if Sherlock Holmes can solve it.”

And then Sherlock leaned in and whispered, taking Greg by the waist, “Shut up and dance with me.”

He stumbled into the embrace, “But –“

“Lestrade, this entire pretense is ridiculous. We’re a couple and announcements are both tedious and invite more questions than answers. Best to do it this way –“

Greg took Sherlock’s hand; apparently the latter was leading. “So _this_ is how you want to come out to our friends? You know how clichéd you look?”

“No, clichéd would be shagging the maid of honor.”

Greg finally loosened up his shoulders and laughed, putting his face in Sherlock’s neck. “I won’t be blamed for your crushed feet, I’ll tell you that now –“

“I made sure to wear a size too big, with room in the toe box –“

“You idiot, kiss me.”

“What, right here?”

“Yes, you daft lad. Claim me.”

* * *

It seemed Sherlock had taken Greg at his word. The kissing continued on the cab ride home and up to the fumbling of keys into locks as they both stumbled, lovingly rumpled and slightly soused, into 221B’s living area.

And that’s when he saw it.

Sherlock’s leather chair had been moved to where John’s used to be. Lit by the streetlamps was a brand new modern recliner, mid-century with black leather and steel where Sherlock’s chair should’ve been. Greg was speechless because of what it meant –

“I know you prefer that vantage point in the room. I realized that it had nothing to do with John’s chair.”

“I _told_ you that -”

“And you needed one. Something new. For our new life together.”

Greg put up his palms to the sides of his head. His eyes were filling. He exhaled and closed his mouth, swallowing. “Thank you. I just, I just might need a moment –“

When he started upstairs, Sherlock went after him, “Lestrade –“

And then another shock.

The bed in John’s old bedroom was gone. Not replaced with a new one. Just… _gone_.

Greg turned around and nearly bumped into Sherlock on the landing.

“You trying to tell me something?”

Sherlock licked his lips and the following words tumbled forth, “Even if we do absolutely nothing. Just move into the bedroom. Lie next to me. I won’t push you; I promise.”

“ _This_ isn’t a push?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a look of exasperation on his face. “If you don’t trust me, why are you here?”

“Look, I’m not –“

“Not what?”

Greg’s dress shirt was unbuttoned from the top enough to show his neck and the border of the scars on his shoulders. Sherlock pointed to them, “Perfect? You weren’t before, you do realize that –“

“Oh, ta,” Greg moved past him to go back downstairs.

“Where are you going?” There was a measure of panic in Sherlock’s voice.

“To make tea, if you don’t mind. Especially if we’re going to have this conversation.”

“I’d rather it not be; I’d rather you let me show you.”

Greg put the kettle on, making a little too much noise for that time of hour while searching for mugs, “You don’t get it. You have the perfect body. Before this – debacle – I was average,” he waved a cup in front of himself for emphasis, “ _Happily_ average, if you must know. But now, I don’t know.” His voice trailed off, his gaze somewhere over Sherlock’s shoulder, lost in thought.

Sherlock responded by taking off his waistcoat with far too much vehemence, throwing the scrap of fabric across the room and collapsing into his chair, running long fingers through his curls in frustration. He exhaled and looked up hard at his partner.

“I used to think it was stupidity but now I’m convinced that you are oblivious.”

“This night is getting better and better. I hope this isn’t your idea of good foreplay –“

“You _are_ perfect,” Sherlock gestured, “Certainly better than _average_.” The last word was almost spit out, as though bitter and poisonous. “You have…a shapely…”

Greg’s eyebrows went up, hands in pockets.

“…bum.” Sherlock didn’t meet his eyes and appeared to be chewing the inside of one cheek, “An abdomen that is…endearing –“

“I put on a stone or two. Ronald promises to get me back in shape –“

“And even if he doesn’t, Lestrade,” Sherlock shot up.

Greg turned his back to him as the kettle whined and began to make the tea. There was a slight electric shock from the fabric as he was embraced from behind. Sherlock had buried his face in the nape of Lestrade’s neck, lips and eyelashes brushing up against his skin, causing gooseflesh to rise.

“Forget the tea and come to bed.”

*   *   *

The curtains were back so that lamplight could filter in. It was all Greg allowed as far as he was concerned. Sherlock decided to curb his readable exasperation and just be content with the fact that his loved one was laying next to him - fully covered by his jim-jams, of course. Sherlock, however, slept in the nude.

It was difficult not to reach out and touch Lestrade, but he held off, waiting for Greg to make the first move. Facing him, Sherlock was half-asleep when he felt his hand being taken, lips pressed lightly to his own. He opened his eyes to find Greg gazing at him, conflicting emotions behind an expression of such intensity.

And so the exploration of Sherlock’s body began. He shut his eyes, daring not to breathe as to be heard, as though it would break some kind of spell. Greg wanted control and it all fit, slotted into place. Everything about the bonfire and its aftermath was about chaos; the way it upturned his life was palpable every day that they were together. So it made sense that he would decide who would touch whom, who would give pleasure, who would receive.

Ah, but he never realized that such withholding could be so erotic; the alternating gentle caress with firmness and pressure, the hitches in his breath combined with Lestrade’s steady in and out. Sherlock would never take for granted again the rise and fall of his chest.

And then suddenly, Sherlock felt bare skin on his and he opened his eyes. Greg had removed his clothing and had rest one leg over Sherlock’s hip. He brought up the latter’s hand and licked it, guiding it back, down, down, down, and wrapping its wetness around both cocks.

A frisson of deep pleasure ran down Sherlock’s spine as the heat from Lestrade’s gaze enveloped him. Greg licked his own palm and grabbed the base of their cocks and began to pump. Sherlock could tell from that first grasp that they didn’t need very much to ease the friction; Greg’s cock was leaking precum and it thrilled Sherlock to know that somewhere beneath the semblance of control he was fostering that he’d lost some of it along the way.

The foreplay had brought him too much to the edge and Sherlock came too quickly. The thought of Lestrade not coming off with him gave him a sudden sense of angry urgency and determination. Normally, the mess of his own fluids on someone else’s body would repulse him, but after waiting for this man for so long, the surge of need, of mutual primal satisfaction tunnel-visioned his actions and gave them purpose. Without giving Greg fair warning, Sherlock licked his way down until his tongue found the head of his lover’s cock. The elicited moan that came forth told him that this was very much wanted and he moved back the bed sheets. Greg’s eyes were open and he appeared oblivious to how exposed he’d become, his fingers entwined in Sherlock’s hair, their eyes meeting over and over again.

And then there was a shudder, a sucking in of breath from Greg that Sherlock could feel without looking up. That beautiful chest, rising up and down and then the release, the warmth, the wetness that filled his mouth and Sherlock swallowed it all, wiping his lips along Greg’s thigh as he launched up to kiss him, fully and completely.

Within minutes, they were both asleep and this time, when Greg woke up, he remembered everything. And it was good.


End file.
